


Creature of Habit

by celestialskiff



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Age Play, BDSM, Biting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike knows what he needs, and Angel knows how to give it to him. Shameless age play fic, containing everything from thumb-sucking and diapers to BDSM and biting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Angelus had been a creature of habit. No matter where they were his routines and rituals remained the same. Angelus brought evil into the world with the same regularity as some men shaved or came home from work, and the blood of innocents was spilled at roughly the same time in Budapest as in St Petersburg; in Munich as in Dublin. Spike found it rather dull—and of course Spike was punished as routinely as throats were opened and knives were applied to ribs.

“That same whip again, Angelus? Really? Again? _That_ whip?” Spike would say, squirming against the ropes around his forearms. Four in the morning: Angelus always chose that whip at four in the morning.

“Your arse is a lovely shade of pink,” was all Angelus would say. “This will deepen the colour nicely.”

Then, of course, were the other rituals, and as embarrassing as it was to be soundly wiped by an egotistical sire, they were much, much more humiliating. “Little lads need their routines,” Angelus would say at about half past five, and Spike, despite himself, would curl up, warm and sore, and allow Angelus to wrap him up, to soothe him—his thumb slowly creeping into his mouth, and his traitorous left hand fumbling around in the bed sheets in search of this silky corner of his special blanket.

A hundred years later, or thereabouts, Angel is still a creature of routine. He drinks his mug of otter's blood at the same time each morning, he paces around his penthouse apartment for the same hours each night, and he is readily engaged by Spike's jabs at any time of day.

It's hard to decide which flaw to pick on, really. Mention his overly inflated ego, the breadth of his chest, the thickness of his skull, the hair: anything will do. Spike watches him, and snipes at him, and waits.

Because the Angelus that Spike wants can't be that deeply buried, can he? Spike thinks that if he finds just the right insult, just the right combination of words, he'll find him.

But, in the end, words are no help at all. It's a Tuesday, and it's half past five in the morning, and Spike is sitting in one of Angel's windows, tired and bored after an evening of uneventful bickering and listening to Angel watch ridiculous sports on his shiny TV. Spike yawns and sighs and slides his thumb between his lips. He's been doing _this_ for as long as he can remember, and the thumb fits perfectly into his mouth, the tip smooth and soft from all those years of wear, lining up perfectly with the curve of his palate. He sucks it softly, looping his index finger over his nose—

—And he's suddenly terribly aware of Angel's eyes on him. He's kneeling beside Spike, and there's a hand in his hair, twisting it, but not quite hurting, and Angel says, “You could have asked.”

Spike wants to say something—something sharp and cutting, or even just ask him whether he was fucking blind, because it must have been obvious—but his thumb is in his mouth, and he can't be bothered to take it out, so he just sighs, and sags against Angel's broad chest, which appears to have been moulded specifically to be sagged against, and lets Angel squeeze his hair.

“You've not exactly been good,” Angel says. “I used to keep a note of ever time you annoyed me, and punish you for each one at the end of the night.”

Spike remembers. “Trust you to be bureaucratic,” he says, around his thumb.

“But it's been a while, and if I punished you for every time you've annoyed me even in the past _day_ we'd be here until tomorrow night, so perhaps we should leave it for now.” Then the hand in his hair jerks his head up so sharply Spike bangs his thumb against his teeth, his scalp stinging, and Angel says, “If we're doing this, I'm keeping track of everything from tomorrow. And you will be punished.”

It's so like Angel to give him rules right away. Angelus—soulless tormentor and demon—liked to keep everything neatly confined by firm sets of rules, and Angel's become even more tidy in his old age. He must _love_ them now.

Spike just nods in agreement, and Angel doesn't let go of his hair, but pulls him up with it, so they're standing, facing each other, in front of the ridiculous window. Spike's hand is ghosting near his face, but he's not actually sucking his thumb, and Angel looks at him, and raises an eyebrow, and tugs him into the bedroom.

“Strip,” he says.

 _That's_ not something Spike is going to argue with, so he takes off his coat and his other layers of clothes and flops back onto the bed. Angel removed his own shirt, but leaves his trousers on.

“Got your blankie?” Angel says, and he manages to say it like that's not a ridiculous, not to mention humiliating, question.

“My what?” says Spike, because he's not completely willing to let go of dignity yet.

Angel looks at him. It's a familiar, knowing look, though it's not quite the expression Angelus once employed.

Spike sighs, and reaches for his coat. It's not his original blanket—far from it. They get lost, or burnt, or simply wear out, and in the end, he replaces them. Angelus was once the one who replaced them, teasing him with the possibility of not giving him one, making him go and ask for one himself in shops, but always, in the end, he had one. A soft blanket with silk edging to soothe him, to stroke between his fingers and to rub over his nose. This one he acquired not long after getting to LA, and it's a piece of fleece with satin sewed along two edges. It's almost too small, but that means he can hide it easily.

“Blue,” Angel says. “Very manly.”

“Brings out my eyes,” Spike says, rolling them, and sits back on the bed. Angel sits next to him, and takes the blanket from him. He looks at it, turning it over in his big hands.

“They don't make these things like they used to,” he says, and he hands it back to Spike. “I'm sure I could get you a better one.”

“Oh, we've only been here ten minutes and you're already criticising my decisions,” Spike says.

“I was only trying to be nice.” Angel has the audacity to sound hurt. And, well, that's a new addition to the dynamic. Spike's pretty sure Angelus never tried to be nice. Overbearing, maybe. Controlling, definitely. But not _nice_.

Spike flops back onto the bed, wriggling his toes. The sheets are thick and soft and smell very clean. Angel does well for himself these days. Angel lies back next to him. He reaches over and twists his hand in Spike's hair again. It's a strong, familiar sort of twist.

“Want to feed, boy?”Angel says in a completely different voice from before. It's the sort of tone that once made Spike tense in anticipation of a blow.

Spike is surprised. Shocked, even. Being allowed to feed is a rare treat, generally only bestowed when Angelus was a bit drunk and Spike had been particularly eager when performing oral sex. He doesn't say anything, but simply nods, his eyes wide.

Angel tugs him over, pressing Spike's face against the exposed line of his throat. And it's been a long time since Spike has been presented anything like this—the cold throat of this vampire even more desirable than a throbbing human neck. For a moment he doesn't do anything, just lies there drinking in Angel's scent, a smell that is both familiar and distant, both arousing and comforting. Then he licks it.

His taste buds are more sensitive than any human's, and he can taste a thin film of pollution on Angel's throat, and the dry taste the collar of his shirt has left on him, and, beneath those, the musky, familiar, Angel taste. His fangs slip into place without thinking about it. But when he bites Angel, it's as tender as any bite can be. It'll be a small wound, and it'll heal quickly.

He begins to suckle, and the blood filling his mouth is rich and coppery. His cock fills with his own blood, and presses stiff against Angel's side. Angel reaches over and cups it, contains it in his big hand, but he doesn't stroke it, merely soothes it, and Spike sucks, the thin liquid trickling over his lips and down his throat, the soft, tender line of Angel's skin moving under his tongue, comforting and arousing and reassuring all at the same time. And the taste—the cold, rich blood: better than anything else.

Angel doesn't let him take much, but he's gentle when he pushes Spike away. Spike is drunk with it, needy for it, his mouth longing for the stimulation. He retracts his fangs, and instinctively starts to suck his thumb again, the soft pad soothing his need. He curls closer to Angel, rests his head on Angel's chest.

He hears Angel speak, but at first it's just a low rumble against his ear, and it takes a moment to make sense of it. He says, “Now you're mine.”

There's no need to reply to _that_. There's never been a question there, if only Angel was a bit sharper about taking what was his.

“Let's get you ready for bed, will we, boy?” Angel says.

His hand, which has been on Spike's cock all this time, gives it one final squeeze, and then he lets go and sits up. It doesn't look like he's getting off tonight. Well. That's not unexpected. Angel has never been exactly _generous_ with orgasms.

Spike fumbles around on the bed, and finds the blanket in its centre. He takes it and tucks it under his chin, soft and close.

His eyes are closed, but he opens them when he hears Angel banging around with a drawer under the bed. He's taking out a package of— Spike has to look again, surprised. It would hardly be the first time he's worn nappies, but it would certainly be the first time he's worn ones from a plastic packet, such things being an invention of the distant future the last time he and Angel did this together. He'd tried putting familiar cloth nappies on himself not long after Angelus left, but it didn't feel the same.

“Why have you got those?” Spike says, slipping his thumb just out of his lips so he can speak distinctly. “Getting incontinent in your old age?”

Angel slaps him on the thigh for that, but it's not exactly hard. Barely a tickle.

“Because you never know when some loudmouth vampire is going to come in and demand to be looked after,” Angel says.

Spike's surprised. “So you did know,” he says, “What I wanted?”

“No,” Angel says. “But when you showed up it seemed like a good idea to prepare for any eventuality.”

Angel rips open the package. The nappies are folded up small in there, but when Angel takes one out and spreads it open, it looks too big, and it's a funny shape. It's not at all like the ones they used to use. Their eyes meet. Spike's surprised to find amusement in Angel's too. Angelus would just have found these the perfect humiliation.

“Well,” Angel says. “Lift your ass, Spike.”

It's less bulky than he's was used to, though it's been so long he's almost forgotten the sensation, and Angel struggled a bit with tapes so Spike thinks it's a bit loose. Angel pats his bum experimentally. “I'm sure you'll get used to it,” he says.

Spike's still hard, and his cock seems to remember wearing nappies fondly, because his arousal increases as soon as it presses against the soft padding. Angel doesn't seem to be paying it the least bit of attention though, and Spike allows himself to be settled back down in the circle of Angel's big arms. He licks the wound on Angel's neck, tasting the last of the blood. Angel strokes his hair, traces his fingers down Spike's spine.

“Try not to leak on the bed,” Angel says. “These sheets were really expensive.”

“Ponce,” Spike says. “Well, I can hardly go right now, can I?”

Angel reaches down and pats the bulge in Spike's nappy. “Don't even think about touching yourself,” he says.

Spike sighs, but he doesn't say anything. He tucks his thumb back into his mouth and strokes the edge of the blanket between his fingers. The thickness of the nappy between his legs is as familiar as it is unexpected, and it reminds of him of similar evenings, lying boneless in Angelus's arms, and feeling entirely helpless and almost entirely safe.

“We lost the best blankie I ever had in Verona,” Spike says, indistinctly, around his thumb and into Angel's neck. “I think we got it in Vienna.”

“Oh yes?” Angel says. He touches the hollow in Spike's cheek lightly, and brushes his index finger along the line of Spike's ear.

“You bought it for me. Or stole it, I suppose. I don't know where. It was small enough to hide easily, but big enough to feel right. It was really soft, and it had this yellow silky stuff around the edges... All the edges...”

Spike trails off. He can smell Angel all around him, and taste him in his mouth, hear the little noises his mouth makes, his hands on Spike's skin. Spike feels all the energy seeping from his limbs—he doesn't think he's been this tired in days. And then he's asleep.

*

He groans when Angel tries to wake him, and the room is full of daylight. It can't hurt him but instinctively he burrows into the blankets, into Angel's side. He's not disoriented, not really—he knows where he is and what's going on. He's just not sure he's ready for this to end.

His thumb had left his mouth as he slept, and now he pops it back in. He curls closer to Angel, wrapping an arm around him.

Angel laughs, and he feels a hand gently stroking his throat. “Aren't you cuddly this morning?” Angel says.

 _That_ has him sitting bolt upright, the thumb sliding out of his mouth. “I'm not cuddly,” he snaps.

“Could've fooled me,” Angel says. Spike rubs his eyes, looking away from him. Unlike last night, he feels vulnerable, exposed in front of Angel like this, wearing a nappy, his thumb hovering close to his lips.

Angel seems to sense his unease. “I have to get up now,” he says. “That's why I woke you. You can stay here if you like.”

Spike can't say it—there's no way—but he wonders if there's something in his movements that drives it into Angel's thick skull, because he's thinking _Don't go_ and Angel says, “I'll have something to eat first.”

He doesn't bring any blood for Spike, and Spike's mouth waters when he smells it, but he draws Spike to his side, and Spike rests his head on Angel's chest and tucks his thumb back into his mouth, which was where it wanted to go anyway. He listens to Angel drinking the blood, the clink of the mug and the sound of the liquid in his mouth, and strokes the blanket over his nose.

“You're very quiet,” Angel says, and Spike doesn't say anything, because part of him is just revelling in _this_ —this peace, being allowed to lie here like this—because it's been so long.

He flops back against the pillows when Angel gets up, and listens to him moving around the room. When he next looks at him, he's wearing clean clothes, and he's done something ridiculous to his hair as usual.

“Are you wet or dry?” Angel says.

Spike knows what he means, but he just says, “Huh?” around his thumb.

“Wet? Or dry?” Angel repeats in a slightly warning tone.

“Dry,” Spike says. He needs a piss he realises, but not badly, and he's not completely sure about wetting a nappy again after all this years.

“I'll be back in three hours. I'll expect you to be wet by then,” Angel says.

“You're not the boss of my bladder, Angel,” Spike snaps.

“Well, _that's_ a lie,” Angel says. “And it's an annoying thing to say. I'll be keeping track, remember?”

Spike can barely admit it to himself, let alone Angel, but there's something very comforting about that little speech, too. “Fuck you,” Spike says cheerfully.

“Be careful, boy,” Angel says, and there's a familiar spark of irritation in his eye. But Spike thinks his tread is lighter than it's been in weeks—years even. So this little evening of theirs was probably good for Angel too.

Once he's sure Angel is gone, Spike goes to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water. He'll even try not to leak on the sheets. Maybe.


	2. Following the Rules

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains some fairly graphic BDSM.

Angel hasn't got creative with the punishments yet—Spike's fairly sure he will: there's only so long Angel can go without getting out the holy water, but his arse and thighs and lower back all have whip marks on them. He's lying on his front, naked except for the nappy Angel's just put on him. The padding soothes his sore behind, and Spike sighs and awkwardly raises his thumb to his lips. Angel's expression softens when he sees this: thumb-sucking even made Angelus a little parental, and it makes Angel positively gooey.

Angel lies down next to him. “Tell me why you were punished,” he says. It's another part of the routine—a fucking boring one as far as Spike's concerned. The fun is doing it, not talking about it. Spike huffs and tries to settle his head on Angel's chest, but Angel doesn't let him. “Tell me,” he repeats.

“I annoyed you,” Spike says. “I told you your hair was stupid and your decision to fight that Fyarl demon by yourself like that was stupid—which it was—and your office is only so big because that's the only size that can contain your ego.”

“You annoyed me,” Angel repeats. “And you were rude. You're being rude again. There are consequences when you're rude.”

“What are they?” Spike says.

“We're done for tonight,” Angel says. “You'll find out tomorrow.”

And there it is again: another ritual. Once Angel's loosened his shoulder muscles a little by giving Spike a bit of a beating, he refuses to touch him again until the next night. Well. Not in any fun ways, anyway. “Boring,” Spike says. “Want me to blow you?”

Angel smiles slightly at that. “Good initiative,” he says. “But not now. It's bed time for little vampires, isn't it?”

Even fifty years ago that might have made Spike squirm. Now he just sticks his hand under the pillow and finds his blankie where he put it earlier in the day to keep it safe. He strokes it over his nose. “I know,” he says. “I find oral sex very soothing.”

“Tell me why else you were punished,” Angel says.

“Back to that old subject,” Spike says. “Can't let things go, can you? I stole a car and went out without your permission.”

“Yes,” Angel says. “What else?”

Spike slides his thumb into his mouth. “Nothing.”

“What else?” Angel repeats.

Spike doesn't say anything. He curls closer to Angel. Some of Angel's repetition of routines has worked on him. After he's punished he usually gets a cuddle. So now he wants a cuddle. Angel doesn't oblige.

“Don't make me repeat myself, boy,” Angel says.

“Had an accident,” Spike says, quickly, around his thumb.

“You don't get punished for accidents, Spike,” Angel says. “You get punished for not telling me you're wet and you need me to change you.”

Spike remembers the squirmy feeling as his bladder filled and the dampness of his nappy against his skin. He'd thought about telling Angel. He had. But it would have meant disturbing Angel when he was downstairs talking to Wesley, and while he usually lived to annoy Angel, it was also on the unpleasant side of humiliating. So he'd just wet the nappy again and it had leaked onto Angel's precious couch.

“So what did you do?” Angel prompts.

“Had an accident,” says Spike again, rubbing his blanket over his nose.

Angel stands up, the bed suddenly vast without him in it. “Goodnight, Spike,” he says.

“Was embarrassed,” Spike says softly. “Angel.”

“Well, _that's_ a mistake. You don't get to be embarrassed around me.” He turns to go.

“Angel!” Spike says. “I leaked on the sofa. Because I didn't tell you. What I needed.”

And somehow saying it is much, much worse than doing it had been. It's bad enough that he's over a hundred and still needs his special blankie: discussing his bladder with his sire is too much.

The bed dips again. Angel's lying back down. “All right,” he says. “Good. You tell me what you need.” He opens his arms then, and Spike curls into them immediately, resting his head on the broad expanse of Angel's chest, his thumb securely in his mouth. He feels Angel stroking his hair. He squirms until he's as comfortable as he can be with his sore thighs and arse. The padding between his legs forces him to spread them all the time, but that's not actually unpleasant.

“Tell me a story,” he says to Angel. Angel strokes his hand softly, the one whose thumb is currently occupied in his mouth, and then grips Spike's wrist, holding the hand firmly in place.

“Once upon a time,” says Angel, “There was a very demanding little vampire—”

“Where did he live?” Spike asks, slurring around his thumb.

“That's not important,” Angel says.

“I think it is,” says Spike.

“Fine,” Angel says. “This little vampire had lived all over the world, but right now he lived in an apartment. A big, expensive apartment and he left his stuff all over everything and he never did what he was told.”

“Where was it? This apartment?” Spike says.

“In a big, shiny city with too much sunlight.”

“Sounds familiar,” Spike says. Angel relaxes his grip on Spike's wrist, so Spike can take his thumb out of his mouth if he wants to, but he doesn't. He leaves it there, his thumb heavy on his lower lip, and he burrows his face into Angel's neck.

“It was a little like this place, yes,” Angel says, and he keeps talking, and Spike stops interrupting because he's drifting towards sleep.

They shouldn't really sleep at night, but over the years they've got into the habit of it, and it doesn't feel strange any more. Spike is accustomed to waking with the sunrise rather than falling asleep with it, but he thinks it probably makes him and Angel cranky. He wakes with his nose in Angel's armpit and a raging hard-on trapped against the thickness of his nappy and Angel's thigh.

He blinks, gauging from the light that it's a little too early for Angel to go dashing off to some tiresome meeting. He squirms, thrusting his cock against the line of Angel's thigh, the tight padding and Angel's large muscle providing tantalising friction. He closes his eyes, relaxes into the sensation, until he feels Angel's hand on his hip, the fingers gripping tight even though Angel's eyes are still closed.

It's hard even for another vampire to tell when a vampire wakes up. There is no tell-tale change in breathing or heart rate. Only the open eyes or the slowly stretching muscles provide an answer.

“What are you doing, boy?” Angel says in a slightly dangerous tone.

“Getting off,” Spike replies. “Can't you tell?”

“Did I tell you you could?” Angel says, and Spike thinks that rhetorical questions are really fucking irritating.

“Well, it's not like you ever bother,” Spike says.

It's only when Angel pushes him away that Spike realises how comfortable he was in the crook of Angel's arm, and he sits on the other side of the bed feeling affronted.

“Go away, Spike,” Angel says. “It's too early.”

“Go where?” Spike says.

“Anywhere,” Angel says. “Just go.”

“Don't you ever want to get off?” Spike says, standing up and contriving to tug Angel's half of the sheets off him. “Don't you ever think about fucking me? Or do all your jollies come from putting me in nappies?”

“Don't yours?” Angel says evenly. It's a lot harder to get him to fly into a rage than it was with Angelus. Spike finds this rather frustrating. He also realises he's only wearing the nappy Angel put on him last night, and stalks out of the room with as much dignity as he can.

He stand in the hallway for a moment, waiting for Angel to call after him. He doesn't hear a sound, though, so he goes into the living room and gathers clothes from where they were discarded the day before. He rips off the unused nappy and leaves it on the couch for Angel to find, and then dresses himself in his familiar clothes. In the clothes of an _adult_. In the clothes of a _feared vampire._

He doesn't have a plan—he has some vague ideas about alcohol—until he meets Fred downstairs. She's all smiles as usual, though he thinks there's been harder edge to her of late.

“Were you helping Angel?” Fred says.

“Depends what you mean by helping,” Spike tells her.

“Well, he has that big meeting today,” Fred says. “You know. I know he's nervous. I mean, who wouldn't be?”

“Nervous,” Spike says. “Doesn't he always have meetings?”

“I know, but you don't usually get six chaos demons in one room, do you? That's got to be tricky.” She makes a cute little face of disgust at the idea, and that's when Spike develops a plan.

“What room is that going to be?” Spike says, and lets Fred point it out. He wanders over and has a little look in. Glancing back, he sees Fred is talking to Wesley now. Good. That'll keep her nice and distracted.

There are eight chairs around the table. At each place there is a black folder with the Wolfram and Hart symbol on it. Spike looks around, and then adds a ninth chair next to the place at the top of the table where he assumes Angel will be sitting. He sits in it, squirming around on his bruised arse to make himself as comfortable as possible. He spreads his legs. It's become his habit to sit with his legs spread as widely as possible whenever he's around Angel, particularly when they're with anyone else, so Angel's attention is drawn to his cock. There's no one here now, and Spike slides his hands into his trousers, and begins to stroke himself. He strokes himself slowly, and firmly, teasing himself—he wants to be aroused, but he doesn't want to come just yet.

He's in the room for about half an hour before anyone else shows up. He flicks through one of the folders, and thinks about how boring Angel's job is, and he looks out at the sunlight though the tinted glass.

By the time he's thoroughly bored, Angel and Wesley come in, leading the chaos demons. Spike's met chaos demons before and he considers them to be blundering fools—bit like Giles at times—so he's not sure why Angel's paying them so much heed. Angel takes in his presence at once, but he doesn't say anything. His eyes slide off Spike like he's not worth looking at, and then he says, “This is an associate of mine. He's just here to observe.”

Such cheek, Spike thinks, not even introducing him by name, but he just nods at the demons because that's not really why he's here. He's gratified when Angel sits down next to him, and Spike slides his chair a little closer. He's got a good angle. If Angel looks to his side, he's looking right at Spike's crotch, but he's hidden by the table from anyone else's gaze. It's perfect.

They start talking. Spike barely follows the conversation. Angel talks a lot and fiddles around with his hair. Then Wesley gets out some more papers and begins reading things out from them. Angel leans back in his chair, looking bored. He glances at Spike. Spike's got his cock out, and he's idly stroking it, running his thumb over the head. Spike has to admire Angel's self control: he starts almost imperceptibly, and bites his lower lip for a second, but otherwise he remains entirely impassive.

Spike glances sidelong at him, wondering how much trouble he's going to be in. He starts stroking himself more quickly, his cock leaking pre-ejaculate. If the chaos demons have a good sense of smell they might work out what he's doing. Otherwise, he's pretty sure he's safe. Angel slides his chair back slightly. Spike hopes it's to get a better view. The thought of Angel watching him, and the thought of what might happen later—how exactly he will be punished, what might happen, the naughtiness and the little tremor of nerves—is just what he needs to send him over the edge.

Wesley's still talking when he comes. He gets most of it in his palm, and the rest lands tacky on in his crotch or on his sleeve. Tucking himself back in with his right hand, he casually brings his left to his mouth, and licks off the traces of spunk. Vampires like spunk: its components aren't really that different from blood. The others can see what he's doing (or, rather, they can see that he's licking his hand), but no one pays him any particular attention. Only Angel knows.

Angel hasn't let him come for days, and he feels pretty relaxed now, his body tingling with the after effects of his orgasm. The rest of the meeting drifts by like a dream, and before he knows it, Angel's poking him in the back to make him stand up, so he can politely nod to the demons as they leave.

Angel then turns back into the room, not looking at him. “I think that went well,” he says to Wesley.

Wesley nods. “I believe it will further our aims,” he says.

“Good,” Angel says. And then to Spike, casually, as an aside, “Go upstairs and wait for me. I have some more things to discuss.”

Spike does as he's told. He's wondering what's going to happen next, full of fear and anticipation. The apartment is quiet, and there's something a little oppressive about it. The part in between being naughty and being punished is his least favourite. He fidgets. He notices Angel's taken the nappy off the sofa, and there's a half finished mug of blood on the table.

He goes into the bedroom. Angel will want him in the bedroom anyway. He sits down on the bed and takes his blanket out from under his pillow. He doesn't think about it: it's just a habit now, an easy pattern of behaviour. He doesn't have to worry about Angel seeing. He rubs it soothingly between his fingers and against his nose, and then he tucks his thumb into his mouth. His thumb still tastes a little like spunk.

That's how Angel finds him when he comes upstairs, twenty minutes later. He stands in the doorway and regards Spike, and Spike thinks he should probably take his thumb out of his mouth, but he can't quite bring himself to do it.

“Stop sucking your thumb,” Angel says instead, and Spike slides it out of his mouth. “And give me your blanket.”

It's a strange request, but Spike hands it to him, the scrap of precious blue cloth looking tiny in Angel's big hand. “You clearly don't need this any more,” Angel says. “If you can behave like you did in that meeting you're a grown-up, and I'm not going to tolerate these childish habits any more. I'm throwing this out.”

That wasn't what Spike meant to happen at all. He's surprised and upset, and he says, “No, don't!”

Angel walks out of the room with it, and Spike hears the clang of the lid of the metal bin from the kitchen. The bin where they put blood bags and coffee grounds. He imagines his blanket stained by blood and flecked with coffee. It's not a pleasant thought. He sits up on the bed, keeping his spine straight, like good posture will appease Angel.

Angel doesn't look at him.

“Lie back,” he says, and Spike does as he's told, but he watches as Angel goes over to his chest of drawers and takes a section of rope out of it.

He ties Spike's hands above Spike's head. He barely looks at Spike as he does it, his face completely impassive, as if he's doing nothing more interesting than tying his shoes. He ties Spike's arms to the headboard, and then he turns to the door to leave.

Spike hates being left like this, and Angel knows it. “When will you be back?” Spike says.

“Quiet, boy,” is all Angel says.

When he does get back, Spike has no idea how long it's been. He's bound too tightly to wriggle free, and he's not sure he would want to anyway. His hands don't go numb like a human's might, but the feeling is constrictive and uncomfortable. He can't keep track of time like this. It feels like he's been left for hours and hours, but it might have only been an hour. It's a shock when Angel comes back in. Spike's beginning to feel like he has been tied up for ever, and like he's never going to escape.

“This what you want, boy?”

Spike knew Angel was coming up the stairs, he'd heard that familiar tread, but he still starts when he hears Angel's voice, because it has a quality that Spike hasn't heard from him in a long time.   
Fifty years, perhaps. Angel slams the door, his eyes glinting gold. He knows how to make an entrance, Spike will give him that. Spike's pretty sure the bottle in Angel's left hand contains holy water, and that this is going to err on the side of punishments he doesn't enjoy, but he's very glad that Angel is back, because it's always the waiting that's the hard part.

“Now you're talking,” Spike says, stretching as far forward as the bonds will allow.

Angel's quick too. Spike forgets that. There's a slowness to Angel's movements when he's with the humans, almost a stumbling quality, and Spike allows himself to forget that Angel has all of Angelus's speed, and all of his dexterity. So Spike is surprised by how quickly Angel has him on his front, his shirt shredded in Angel's hands, his face pressed into the cool cotton bed sheets, so surprised that he sucks in an unnecessary breath and balls his left hand into a fist. His shoulder is twisted at a painful angle, and his hands are still bound so he's awkward, and he doesn't have time to adjust his position before Angel pours the holy water.

It sizzles on his skin. He hears the sizzle almost before he feels the pain, and he makes a little, involuntary sound, and then Angel pours it again, again and onto exactly the same spot. If tonight's going to be about exposing his bones, Spike's certain he's not going to enjoy it.

“I won't talk about my mission here, or how you jeopardised it. I won't talk about what I'm trying to achieve and why it's important, because soul or no soul you clearly don't give a shit about it,” Angel says. His voice is even, and Angel sounds calm. “What I will tell you, boy, is that you don't touch what's mine, and you are mine, and that's something you should care about very much.”

He pours again, and Spike can smell his own flesh melting, and this time he really yells.

Spike looses track of time. It feels like a lot of time, and he's certainly doing a lot of yelling, but it's hard to tell exactly, just as it gets hard to tell quite what Angel's doing. There's been holy water, and there's definitely been a whip involved, and there might have been a knife too, but it's getting blurry. Behind him, Angel is talking to himself, in a low, musical voice. Spike doesn't listen to what he's saying, but he recognises the tone. In the past, a voice like that always meant that Angelus was concentrating, and Angelus's complete concentration is a rather frightening thing. It's hard to keep track of time, too, because Spike is beginning to feel light, like he's limbs aren't really attached to the bed any more, he's beginning to feel light and airy, and far removed from everything around him. He's in pain, and he can feel the noises he makes in his throat, and he can taste his own blood in his mouth, though Angel hasn't touched his face so that doesn't make any sense, but beyond all that, there's a part of him that just feels like he's floating.

Then Angel stops.

The pain in his back floods over him, a black wave of pain that makes him shiver, and then it recedes slightly. He gingerly flexes a muscle in his shoulder.

“Tired, boy?” Angel says. “I haven't even taken your pants off yet.”

Spike's still trying to think of something to say when he hears the door shut. The room is suddenly very quiet. He breathes another unnecessary breath, tries to shift position, but he finds the ropes are twisted too awkwardly in front of him, and the struggle against them hurts too much. He opens and closes his eyes. He lies still. He has a sudden urgent desire to suck his thumb.

He drifts. He thinks he can feel blood dripping along his back and soaking into the sheets, but part of him thinks that's just his imagination. Part of him still feels light and far away, drifting somewhere beyond this room, and part of him is simply tired.

When Angel comes back, Spike hears the slosh of liquid in a bowl, and he tenses, waiting for more holy water, but when Angel sits next to him he can smell disinfectant in the water, and he can smell its heat too. Angel cleans his back with familiar precision, the hot trails of water running over his sides and soaking into the bed below him. It stings, but it's warm and familiar, and Spike finds himself relaxing.

When Angel decides he's clean enough, he unties Spike's arms. Spike doesn't move, but allows Angel to tug him upwards. He opens his eyes and meets Angel's. Angel's eyes no longer glint gold, and they look at him tenderly. He leans forward and kisses Spike's forehead.

“Bad boys get punished, don't they?”

Spike relaxes at once. This sentence is as familiar and as soothing as a lullaby.

“Yes,” he says.

“Sometimes they even get punished in ways they don't like,” Angel says. He's got a hand in Spike's hair, and while it's not gentle, it's not hurting him either.

“Yes,” Spike says. And he presses his head up into Angel's palm and says, “Daddy.”

Angel squeezes his hair. It stings. He looks pleased.

“Take the rest of your clothes off,” Angel says. Spike does so quickly, the skin on his back stinging as he moves.

Angel spanks him, the skin of his palm meeting Spike's ass and thighs. Spike borrows his face into the side of Angel's lap, and thinks about how intimate it is, and about the sounds he hears, the sound of skin on skin. It burns, and he knows his skin will be red, but it feels like nothing after what Angel did earlier. In comparison, it's a tender caress, and the violent motion of hand on skin is familiar and the pain is a welcome distraction from the earlier pain.

He's used to this feeling. This feeling loosens him, and he feels himself settling back into his body again. He feels the true sting of his back, the pain there that seems to extend through layers and layers of skin, right to his bones, and he feels Angel's powerful muscles beneath him, and Angel's hands on his ass. He's crying before he knows he's doing it, the sobs overwhelming.

Angel doesn't stop just because he's crying, he never does, and Spike's glad of that. Angel keeps going like he's never going to stop, and Spike never knows if he knows Spike so well he stops when Spike truly has had enough, or if he just keeps going until he himself is sick of it, and Spike just has to put up with it until that's the case. Spike hopes it's the latter, because that means when Angel gathers him into his arms and lets Spike press his face into Angel's neck and cling on, it's because Angel wants that to happen too.

Angel holds Spike like that, gently, for a few moments, and Spike is aware that he's trembling and that his tears are running down Angel's neck, and then Angel spreads him out, face down, on the bed. Spike feels the bed shift when Angel stands up.

“I still have work to do,” Angel says. “But you'll be all right, won't you? You don't need me.”

Spike nuzzles at the pillow. It feels slightly damp. “I want my blanket,” he says very softly, so softly a human wouldn't be able to make out the exact words.

“I threw it out,” Angel says evenly, and then he leaves the room. The air feels heavy when the door shuts behind him. Spike sighs and squirms and feels the ache in his skin. Apparently he's still being punished.

*

When sleep comes, it's fitful, and he drifts in out of wakefulness. The sky changes colour, and the skin around his eyes stings. When he gets up, it's hard for him to tell how much time has passed, although he doesn't think that's really important. He showers, and the water makes his back sting, but it feels good to get the last of the dried blood off. He twists his head around, trying to see the wounds, but the angle is difficult. He doesn't think it looks very bad, which would make sense, because Angel likes inflicting pain, not lasting damage.

He gets dressed and heats up some blood in the kitchen. It takes him some time to realise how hungry he is, but once he does he makes himself a second mug, and then a third. He vacillates, for a moment, standing in the kitchen, looking out at a pale, unfamiliar sky, as to whether he should go and find Angel or not, but he quickly decides that he will. Spike wants to see him, and Spike does what he wants.

Angel's in his office, reading through some files. He looks drained and uncomfortable, and he has the slightly pinched look of a vampire who hasn't fed recently. It feels all wrong to see him sitting at a desk like that. Angel should be out in the dark, hunting, not cooped up here.

“I'm working,” Angel says without looking up.

“Hungry?” Spike replies.

Angel's eyes pause on the page. He puts the pen down. “Yes.”

“All right.” Spike goes to fetch him some blood, the kind he likes, with the otter's blood in it. Spike's not that fussed about the otter's blood—animal blood is animal blood—but Angel seems to like it.

Angel drinks it quickly: Spike knew he was hungry; but his eyes don't really leave the file. “It's quiet out there,” Spike says. “Hardly anyone wandering around looking confused.”

“It's early,” Angel says. And then he pauses. “Or late. I'm not sure.”

It turns out it's early. The day is a long one. Spike doesn't spend it all with Angel, but when he does he sees him gradually looking more and more tired, his eyes out of focus. There's a diverting fight with some demons who try to break in, but mostly it's just the monotony of files and of clients. Spike spends some time taunting Angel's human friends, but it feels rather hollow to him.

It's late when he comes to Angel's office for the last time. Angel's sitting in the same position as he was that morning, a mug of semi-congealed blood in front of him.

“If you don't sleep you'll just get more stupid and soon you won't be able to read English,” Spike says.

Angel looks up.

“And you won't be any use then,” Spike says. “You might've been once, when your main job was sticking knives in things, but you won't be now.”

Angel looks at him just dangerously enough that Spike's muscles start to tense in anticipation. But all Angel says is, “Okay.” He shuts the file. He shuts it hard, but the paper's so flimsy it doesn't make much noise. “Let's go to bed.”

Upstairs, Spike removed the majority of his clothes. The sheets still smell a little like his blood, and a little like the disinfectant Angel used, but Spike can't be bothered to change them. He curls up on his side, facing away from the door, in his usual position. Angel's still in the bathroom. Spike can hear him banging around. He's probably fiddling with his hair.

Spike's sleepy, and his thumb slides into his mouth without any conscious thought. He hooks his index finger over his nose and sucks softly. His right hand clenches, longing for a blanket that isn't there. Still, sucking his thumb is better than nothing.

When he hears Angel come in, he wonders if he'll get into trouble for it, but he doesn't take the thumb out of his mouth. He's still looking at the opposite wall, not at Angel's side of the room, so he hears, rather than sees, Angel opening a drawer. He stiffens slightly: he probably won't like what's in the drawer. He feels the bed dip behind him as Angel stretches out on it. Angel comes up behind him and wraps an arm around his waist. Spike leans back into the cool shape of the other vampire, shifting happily into those arms. Humans might call this spooning, but they're wrong: it's just sensible vampire sleeping.

Spike feels something silky run over his cheek by the corner of his mouth. He shifts, surprised, and then Angel drapes the blanket over his arm and on the bed next to him. It's a knitted blanket, knitted in familiar lacy waves, but instead of being in blue or yellow or some other awful colour, it's black, and it's edged in thick, crimson satin. Spike stares at it, and then grabs it with his right hand, drawing it greedily to his face. It's very soft, and it feels perfect.

“How did you—” Spike begins.

“I had it made,” Angel says. “That other thing you had was awful.”

“Yes,” Spike says. He rubs the silky edge over his nose, gathering the soft black folds to his chest. He suddenly feels like he doesn't ever want to let this blanket go. He curls closer to Angel, as close as he can, dipping his head so it's pressed under Angel's chin. He doesn't want to talk. He thinks if he talks he'll ruin this, and right now he doesn't want to be Spike the vampire, who complains and kills things and gets into trouble. He doesn't want to be anything other than Angel's boy. Angel's little boy. For once, he even wants to be good.

It doesn't matter though, because Angel's limbs are heavy around him, and he's completely still. Spike could probably say anything and Angel wouldn't hear. He's sleeping the heavy, exhausted sleep of overworked bureaucrats everywhere.


End file.
